


this summer/quest'estate

by Ms_E_Vye



Category: Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 11:17:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15218009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ms_E_Vye/pseuds/Ms_E_Vye
Summary: "The heat of this boy's body rivals that of the Italian afternoon sun—sun brilliant white across the cobblestones, the stretch, of the piazza."





	this summer/quest'estate

The heat of this boy's body rivals that of the Italian afternoon sun—sun brilliant white across the cobblestones, the stretch, of the piazza.

Even as Oliver leans back in his chair, and adjusts his sunglasses, and spares a glance for his notes resting on the table, he detects hints of that heat, reaching out to him in tentative waves. Elio's body posture and language, however, tend to mirror his own. "Yeah? And what do you do in the winter—wait for summer to come?" Oliver says, lips moving into the start of a smile that is soon reflected in Elio's face.

Elio removes his sunglasses and, when he smiles again, this time it reaches his eyes. Abruptly, the heat is too much. Oliver shifts in his chair, inhales. He breathes out as bells chime the hour, releasing him from the moment.

Gathering his things, Oliver detaches, moves toward the bikes, propped up a step or two away. "Alright, buddy. Thanks for the help."

There's no breeze, not today, in the white-hot space of the piazza.

He senses Elio shadowing him, moving toward where their bikes stand also, but he makes no move to look. He looks only when he cannot help it, when Elio loses his balance and there is a collision of handlebars and wheels. They are too close.

When Oliver places a hand on Elio's shoulder to steady him, the heat, even through a layer of red fabric, is overwhelming.

... 

As the summer unspools, Oliver recalls, again and again, the first afternoon in the piazza.

It was inevitable, he thinks, that the cool of his "Later!"s would fail to withstand Elio's warmth.

Oliver is remembering that afternoon, now, as he looks at his and Elio's bodies, entangled, layered with a sheen of sweat. It is after midnight, and moonlight and a breeze stream in through the open window.

Elio presses a hot kiss to his jawline.

....

Elio is the Italian summer, to Oliver. A glass of apricot juice drained in a moment. Manuscript pages bleached by sunlight and rippled at the edges by pool water. Sheets tangled at the foot of the bed.

July fading into August.

It is an August afternoon. Once Oliver is certain they are alone, he reaches for Elio. Oliver's hands slip beneath Elio's t-shirt, seeking the heat of his skin, the rise and fall of his rib cage with each breath. He lowers his head and kisses the arc of Elio's neck.

Elio twines his fingers in Oliver's hair and says, not for the first time, "we wasted so many days." Oliver closes his eyes. He allows himself, for a moment, to think only of the heat radiating from Elio's body.


End file.
